


The 25th of July.

by HimeBeat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Anniversary, Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, M/M, Married Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, One Shot, Parentlock, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 10:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12816042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HimeBeat/pseuds/HimeBeat
Summary: They had absolutely not forgotten their anniversary.Right?Well, Rosie certainly hadn't.





	The 25th of July.

**Author's Note:**

> I love writing Rosie because I can pretty much get away with any characterization I want (?)  
> Also I love writing married Johnlock because practically all they're missing is the rings and that's what FF is for.  
> I own nothing, unfortunately

John was half-asleep by his side on the cab, eyes closed, and head comfortably resting against the sleuth’s shoulder.

 

It had been a hell of a chase, after five days of a _hell_ of a case. The ones they rarely took anymore; but Sherlock had been a bit bored and John – albeit he wouldn’t admit – was also eager to get out and take one of the heavy ones, because maybe they were getting old, but like _hell_ they’d let themselves just go altogether.

 

John couldn’t say he remembered much of the last five days, at least not anything that didn’t concern the case – and, God forgive them, they’d been terrible parents for most of that week.

 

Not like they’d actually neglected their child, but _almost._ Rosie had been to school on time every day, after going to bed on time every night, lunch packed, hair brushed, the works, and someone had been there to pick her up every day as well. John is almost certain it was him on Monday, but the remaining of the week it had been a parade of their friends, who’d kindly take on babysitting duty whenever they did take one of these cases.

 

In the middle of his almost nap, John reminded himself to send Molly Hooper the nicest flowers he could find in London. And to take Mrs. Hudson out for dinner to whatever fancy restaurant the name “Sherlock Holmes” could get them into.

 

Mrs. Hudson had helped with dinner every night, and whichever of them happened to be home, and not too focused working at the time – mainly John – would help her to bed. But it was almost mechanical, because even then he couldn’t fully distract himself from checking reports and running searches on suspects. Molly had been a saint, too, picking up Rosie after school and taking her either to Baker St. or Bart’s, wherever they happened to be at the moment, if neither, she’d keep the girl with her at the hospital and help with her homework. Oh, the women in their lives were godsend, all right, and he’d make sure to thank and reward them accordingly.

 

How they’d make it up to Rosie, though, was a different story altogether. They hadn’t shared a meal in the whole week, hadn’t been there to help her with homework, or to read to her, they hadn’t taken her to the playground or to her usual playdates; worse of all, she’d missed violin practice with Sherlock, as he’d been too immersed in the case to play with her, and the one time he’d played it had been to clear his mind – this she’d resent to Sherlock particularly, and John knew better than to get himself involved. – either way, Rosie had all the right in the world to be mad at them.

 

And for all the third of their daughter that belonged to Mary Watson, John knew she _was_ mad. It wasn’t just the eyes and the bouncy curls, Rosie had also inherited that snarky stubbornness of her mother, being raised by Sherlock, of course, only made matters worse, she was _observant,_ and bright as a lightbulb. And she was delightful and sweet, but she could also be alarmingly convincing, and a tiny bit manipulative.

 

Worse of all, she had both of her parents wrapped around her finger. And _she knew it._

 

And John was the proudest dad in the world but he was also most terrified one, for he knew there was no escaping the cascade of reclaims and demands their eleven-year-old daughter would attack them with as soon as they crossed the doors of 221B Baker St.

 

“Are you ready to face the devil?” John half-joked, as their cab pulled on the sidewalk outside their flat.

Sherlock sighed heavily “We did just catch a criminal, think she would spare us the night?”

 

John laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think she cares”

 

“of course, she doesn’t, all we did was making London a safer place to live, why would she be grateful about that at all” Despite the sarcasm, the detective had the faintest smile in his face.

 

Either Rosie would be in her room, pretending they didn’t exist and remain this way until the next morning.

 

Or she was waiting for them in the living room, with Mrs. Hudson by her side, her eyes piercing and angry, and she wouldn’t as much as let them walk through the door before starting to lecture them both on parenting.

 

Option three was she wasn’t there at all, choosing to spend the night at her uncle Mycroft’s (unlikely, as his brother would have probably notified them by now), but it wouldn’t have been the first time that Rosie “escaped” to the government’s manor when mad at her parents. Mycroft welcomed her open armed because 1. He loved her, and 2. He loved to annoy the hell out of Sherlock and John.

 

Either way, they’d be over the whole thing sooner than not, and with the case over, they could go back to normal (as normal as it ever got in 221B)

 

When they finally crossed the threshold to their flat, however, they walked into none of the above.

 

Instead, they were welcomed by a rather-jumpy Rosie, who shouted in delight and ran to hug them immediately.

 

Sherlock shot a confused look at John, while their daughter hugged them by the neck with each one of her arms, John raised an eyebrow in response, equally startled.

 

“Daddy, Papa, you’re back! Just in time!” she exclaimed excitedly, stepping away from them only to push them into the living room “stay right here, Nan and I will take care of everything!” and as soon as she said this she was gone, rushing downstairs so fast John almost scolded her to be careful.

 

But there were other things more concerning at the moment.

 

“John, what is this? Some sort of new manipulation technique?” Sherlock whispered, even though Rosie couldn’t possibly hear them.

 

“How the hell would I know? Whatever she’s doing, she learned it from you!” he whisper-shouted. Equally puzzled by their daughter’s behavior. He sighed, allowing himself some hope “maybe, maybe this is good, maybe she’s not mad at us” he tried.

 

Sherlock scoffed “Right, because we’re _that_ lucky”

 

And maybe they _were_ , because when Rosie came back up a moment later, she was carrying a big cake in her hands and a too-genuine smile on her face. Mrs. Hudson right behind her carrying a trail with all sorts of food.

 

“Daddy, Papa, happy anniversary!”

 

For a couple of very long seconds the whole flat was quiet, as the good doctor and the detective tried – and failed, then tried again – to process their daughters’ words.

 

They had absolutely _not_ forgotten their anniversary.

Right?

 

John found the words first.

Kind of.

 

“Rosie, eh, thank you, dear, but it isn’t our anniversary yet” he offered. Rosie raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock suddenly growing very tall and very stiff next to his husband.

 

_Mind palace,_ John noticed. Not exactly comforting, seen as he was virtually alone now.

 

“But it is, daddy. I checked! I even asked uncle Mycroft, see, the 25th of July, it says right there” she put the cake on the coffee table, and a moment later she was showing them a clear copy – maybe even the original - of their marriage certificate, that read very clearly indeed the 25th of July as the emission date.

 

But it couldn’t be the 25th, right?

_Right?_

 

“it really is today, dear” confirmed Mrs. Hudson. When neither of the men reacted again “Rosie has been so excited all day, waiting for you to return you we could celebrate. She baked the cake and all, with a bit of assistance, of course” she winked at her boys. “What with you running around all week after that thief, I was worried you wouldn’t be here at all; I think you could use a break”

 

Rosie nodded, calling the attention back to herself.

 

“Since it’s your anniversary, I’m also willing to forgive and forget the fact that you’ve been awful dads to me this last week.” – she said, not without a hint of drama in her voice – “Papa, I even forgive you for missing violin practice.”

 

At this Sherlock finally woke up from his trance – he’d been trying to figure out just _how_ he’d let their bloody anniversary escape his memory, when it had been a sacrosanct day every year to date – Rosie’s words brought him back. As an only response, he looked down at her, then to the side, to his equally dumbfounded husband, then back to their daughter.

 

He blinked once. Twice. Three times, before finally finding his words again.

 

“I will certainly make it up to you, flower – he promised – what about a private concert for dad? As a gift” he suggested, and Rosie’s eyes lit up with excitement.

 

The charming bastard, John thought. He got out of it so easily.

 

“I’ll get my violin!” she exclaimed, and rushed into her bedroom.

 

“I’ll get this sorted and make some tea” offered Mrs. Hudson, taking the cake and the trail into the kitchen.

 

Alone in the living room, John found Sherlock’s eyes.

 

“You forgot our anniversary?” hissed John, disbelief in his voice.

 

“Oh, do shut up, you forgot it, too” huffed Sherlock. Taking off his coat. Helping John off his own a moment later.

 

“We’ve been so consumed with this bloody case but, I can’t believe we actually forgot it!”

 

“Hardly see how it is a laughing matter” Sherlock frowned. Their anniversary was a most important date to him, it was the day they had officially declared everything they’d been to each other for so long now.

 

Perhaps old fashioned of him, but he loved to call John his husband, even if it didn’t capture how John was actually _everything_ to him, it was a good enough for the paperwork; more even, he loved that by being married to John he was officially, _legally,_ Rosie’s parent as well.

 

That he, Sherlock Holmes, had a family to call his own. How ludicrous. How wonderful.

 

“Oh, love, no, of course is not” John said, getting closer to Sherlock, putting his hands on the detective’s shoulders. “our anniversary is a very special date” he clarified “I’m just impressed we forgot, I’d been looking forward to it all month, and I know you’d never forget it – Sherlock sighed in disappointment – then this week happened… but hey, let’s not dwell on it; The night is young, and we can still celebrate, right?” he smiled fondly up to Sherlock, giving him a short, loving kiss.

 

Just then Rosie paraded back into the living room, tuning her violin as she walked.

 

“All right, Papa, get to it! I know all of daddy’s favorite songs, so I’ll lead the set list for the night” She said, no room for questioning in her voice.

 

Sherlock laughed at this, looking over with nothing but adoration to _their_ daughter. He grabbed John’s left hand from his shoulder and gave it a kiss, right where his wedding band was.

 

“May I remind you, child, that _I composed_ most of your dad’s favorite pieces, I should be the one to choose tonight’s selection” Said Sherlock, stepping away from John and making his way to his own violin, tuning it as he spoke, while Rosie fumbled with some music sheets by the window.

 

She looked at him thoughtfully “70/30” she offered.

 

“Deal”

 

John laughed, good humored, as Mrs. Hudson walked back with tea, and four perfectly sliced pieces of cake.

 

“Ah, dears, how lovely” she said.

 

“it’s our anniversary gift to John” Sherlock said, with a half-smile.

 

John smiled back at his family as he sat on his chair, inviting Mrs. Hudson to take Sherlock’s, as both his husband and daughter began to play.

 

Rosie chose the first song, and without warning Sherlock she strung the melodies to John and Sherlock’s wedding song, composed by Sherlock, of course.

 

John closed his eyes and let himself go back to that auspicious day, seven years ago today. It’d really been a wonderful day, a small event, really, just their closest people, without much of a fuzz, but it had been _theirs,_ then a short yet _very_ _pleasant_ honeymoon, and afterwards it had been going back to a pseudo-routine and a life they couldn’t imagine not living, but married, united in yet another level.

 

The evening went on, between music and cake, and Rosie’s not-so-unforgiving remarks on her week, how she’d missed going to the playground, how aunt Molly’s soup tasted funny, how uncle Mycroft had a new security system – “you went to Mycroft’s?” “He said this one should be unbreakable, even for you, Papa” “We shall see…” – John told her about their case, Sherlock intervening to correct John when he omitted something – “she’s too young for _that part,_ Sherlock” “if you are going to tell the story, you might as well do so truthfully, _John”_ an argument Rosie supported. John frowned and called off the storytelling altogether, insisting it was already past her bedtime. Mrs. Hudson long gone about an hour before, when she usually went to bed just after Rosie herself.

 

Rosie protested – when did she not – yet her parents didn’t nudge, and, to begin what would be a long week of compensating Rosie, they both helped her get ready, helped her to bed, and read to her – she could read on her own just fine, but she insisted that night they should do it, they didn’t dare object.

 

They walked together out of her room when she was finally asleep, just past 10pm.

 

“Well, I do believe we have a few hours of our anniversary left” Smirked Sherlock, as they found their way to their bedroom upstairs.

 

“Any ideas of how we might use them, Mr. Holmes?” John played along.

 

“A few, yes” His voice was low and he approached John dangerously by the back, nudging at his neck _just so_ “But say, Dr. Watson, will I be receiving a gift this year? It is my anniversary too, after all”

 

“ _Oh?_ Well, don’t think that a violin concert alone will do as a present, then, you _did_ forget the date, after all”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the reminder.

 

“For God’s sake, John, we both did, you’re not better standing than I am” Scoffed Sherlock, turning the other man around so they could make eye contact. John looked up at him, adoringly.

 

“Hmm, I’m not the one with the hard-drive for a brain”

 

“No, no. you’re the one with _feelings”_ Remarked Sherlock, holding onto his husband and beginning a tuneless slow dance. They always danced on their anniversary, just as they’d done on their wedding day.

_“Please,_ Sherlock, you couldn’t possibly have me believe you lack those, not after seven years of marriage, and much longer of knowing you” bemused John, head on Sherlock’s shoulder, swinging softly “not when we’re dancing to no music in the middle of our bedroom, just because it’s our anniversary, and you can’t entertain the thought of _not_ dancing tonight” he said, his voice so tender the teasing was hardly distinguishable.

 

“You wouldn’t forgive me if we didn’t” although unnecessary, Sherlock felt the need to defend the tradition “besides, you love it, and you know that I am only this _sentimental_ for you”

 

“and for Rosie” John added.

 

“and for Rosie” he confirmed. “who, by the way, was the only one who did remember the date” John chuckled, and Sherlock followed with a smirk of his own.

 

“We are two lucky idiots, to have her forgive us for this week like that” Sherlock hummed in agreement

 

“Not that she totally let us off the hook” She would probably give them a hard time the next day, but for the night they were as good as forgiven.

 

“Why, never, but it went much better than I expected” Sherlock hummed again.

 

They kept dancing like that for a bit longer. Until whatever song Sherlock was leading to ended in his head, he stopped quite abruptly, startling John from his tranquil state, and before he could say anything, Sherlock had cradled his face in his hands, and was looking him straight in the eyes with that gaze that always made John feel naked. With all of him just exposed to Sherlock to _take._

 

The thing was, he could see right through Sherlock as well.

 

“Thank you” Murmured the detective, stormy eyes boring into his own blue ones, vulnerable, carrying something that John had learned to read over the years as more than just love, or admiration, or respect, all of those things, too, but what John could see in Sherlock’s eyes it was pure adoration, _need,_ on its simplest form, for _him,_ the unassuming army doctor that had turned his life around _._  

 

John didn’t have to ask what Sherlock was thanking him for. Words weren’t sufficient, that’s why Sherlock spoke with his eyes.

 

“To you too, love” he replied, and he kissed his brilliant husband, deciding to speed up on their evening, the day was almost over, and they had yet to celebrate _properly_ ; he pulled Sherlock closer to him, slotting their hips together, gasping into the kiss at the wonderful, much awaited contact.

 

Sherlock kissed him harder, and started to fumble with John’s jumper, wanting it gone.

 

“Happy anniversary, Sherlock” Muttered John against his lips, realizing he hadn’t actually said it yet.

 

“It’s always happy with you, John” replied Sherlock, lips against John’s neck, just brushing “Now, please do take off your clothes…”

 

And that was the last time anything coherent came out of their mouths that night.  

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I chose the 25th of July because it's the date of Sherlock's S1 premiere and, yeah, why not. 
> 
> hopefully worth your read, I'm just here for the fluff and the feels, thanks for reading, it means a lot (":


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